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“Thank goodness. I knew you’d see reason eventually.”
We turned around to head back to Bloomingdale’s, but we must have caught the surveillance detail off-guard, for they didn’t have time to get out of sight—and since I doubted they yet knew about Mom’s immunity, they probably weren’t concerned about staying out of sight. We nearly came face-to-face with a hovering gargoyle.
I grabbed Mom’s shoulder and spun her around to walk in the opposite direction. “On second thought, they’ll think I’m crazy if I go right back. Let’s window-shop a while longer and then we can return the shoes.”
As we walked away, I glanced back over my shoulder, trying silently to signal the gargoyle that it had to stay well out of sight, but it was gone.
“Did you see that?” Mom asked, also looking over her shoulder.
I tried to keep her moving forward. “See what?”
“There was this thing, flying right at us.”
“I think a little kid had a helium balloon. The street vendors are really out today. Want to buy a designer knockoff purse?”
She glanced over her shoulder again. “No, I don’t think it’s on a string.”
I looked behind us, but the gargoyle must have finally caught a clue and ducked out of sight. I’d have to have a word with Sam about his people. This one seemed a bit slow. “Well, there’s nothing there now,” I said, steering Mom around the corner.
“Why don’t you return the shoes now, and then we won’t have to worry about coming back.”
I peered into my shopping bag and even opened the shoe box lid a crack so I could admire the red stilettos. “On second thought, I’ve changed my mind. I want to keep them. They’re the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever owned.”
She shook her head wearily. “Well, if you say so. But I’m not letting you spend anymore money today.”
“There’s nothing more I want to buy.”
“Then we can get lunch. I want to go to a deli, like in the movies.”
This part of town wasn’t my usual stomping grounds, but you can’t swing a dead cat in Manhattan without hitting a deli, so finding a place for lunch wasn’t too difficult. I doubted that the fact that there was an available table at the first deli we found on a day like today was a good sign of quality food, but I didn’t feel like looking for anything else, so we settled in for lunch. It’s pretty hard to mess up a corned-beef sandwich. I pondered trying on my new shoes again while Mom studied the menu.
“I guess I’ll just get a sandwich at these prices,” she said. “But will that be enough?”
“It should be more than enough. We could probably even share one sandwich. They make really big sandwiches around here.”
“Hmm. Or maybe I could try matzo ball soup. I’ve never had that before. What’s it like?”
“It’s like chicken soup with big, round dumplings in it.”
“Oh.” She frowned at the menu some more, then looked up and blinked. “Isn’t that your friend over there?”
I turned to see where she was pointing. “Over where?”
“Leaning against that wall.”
The entrance to the deli was crowded enough that it was difficult to make out if anyone leaning against the wall was someone I ought to know, but then a tall, thin man emerged from the crowd and walked toward us, a smug smirk on his face—I mean, even more smug than normal, which was pretty smug. “Oh, that friend,” I said. “And he’s not really a friend.”
It appeared that Owen had been wrong about one thing—which might have been a first. Idris wasn’t after him. He appeared to be focusing on me. If Idris had been targeting Owen, he’d be up in some village on the Hudson, disrupting Owen’s weekend with his foster parents. And from what little Owen had said about his foster family, I got the distinct impression that he’d welcome the distraction. I, however, would have preferred to skip the intrusion.
My glower didn’t appear to bother Idris in the least, though. He walked up to our table, pulled out a chair, and plunked himself into it. “Mind if I join you?” he asked rhetorically. “It could take forever before I get a seat on my own.”
It was a situation Emily Post didn’t cover: What do you do if your sworn enemy invites himself to join you and your mother for lunch, and you don’t want your mother to know you even have sworn enemies? The only answer I could think of was to act like it was no big deal. That would probably drive him crazier than anything else I could do. And it wasn’t as if he could use magic to harm either of us or do anything else to us in that crowd.
“Please, join us,” I said with a cyanide-laced saccharine smile. “Mom, this is Phelan Idris. You probably remember him from the other night, when he left before I could introduce you. I know him from work.” Which was true enough. “Mr. Idris, this is my mother, Mrs. Chandler.”
I had to fight back any signs of triumph at how intensely uncomfortable he looked with formal manners. “Um, hi,” he said, fidgeting in his seat. I wished now that we’d gone to some froufrou ladies-who-lunch restaurant where he’d have been even more out of place. Mom narrowed her eyes at him. Clearly, she thought he couldn’t come from good people to be so lacking in manners.
I continued acting like I was hosting a tea party. I might not be able to zap him the way Owen did, but I could Southern-belle him to death. “What brings you out today? Getting a start on your Christmas shopping?” I asked with fake cheer.
